Apparently i have earned myself a new nickname among Fiance's friends. It seems they have taken to calling me Catty Scott. They say I deserve it for the continual dressing-downs I have given various celebs in this very paper on account of what they are wearing.

They have started to take issue with the big red crosses I'm so fond of putting next to the cheap and nasty frocks worn by certain soap stars to various events, and the mean comments I've made when yet another pop starlet steps out in a dress that in no way makes allowances for her ample chest, leaving her with the four-boob effect. The way they see it, I like to get my claws out whenever I can, and I ain't afraid to put my name to it either.

I think they're missing the point slightly. Few would disagree with the choices I've made on the badly dressed front; in fact, the girls in the office regularly bring my attention to the crimes against fashion they have witnessed in the papers and on the internet.

And when you're talking about style, demonstrating what not to wear is just as important as advice on how to get it right. In short, it's part of my job and those who refuse to look in the mirror before attending a camera-laden event deserve to be outed.

Personally, I think the nickname has more to do with them being disgruntled by my one-woman mission to rid the world of the catastrophe that is men in pink shirts. Regular readers will remember how frustrated I was that Fiance insists on wearing them to work. I tried to bribe him by saying that if he continued to wear such monstrosities, I would shame him in my column.

I know, it's devious, but it didn't work. He still wears them. In fact, when we left the house for work this morning he was wearing one. And I think he does it deliberately to annoy me. Every so often Fiance or one or other of his friends will send me a photo text message, thumbs in the air, with a note about how much they are loving their pink shirts. If they know I'm meeting them from work, they'll all turn up in pink shirts to rile me.

My father-in-law-to-be even emailed me to tell me there was nothing wrong with pink shirts, listing anyone and everyone he knew who liked the damned things.

And another male friend suggested I take back my comments and use my column to apologise to the nation for insulting their taste.

I wouldn't ever dream of doing such a thing; in fact I stand by what I say. And if that means insulting nicknames, then so be it. Being called Mr Nasty never did Simon Cowell any harm. He's made a living from his ability to dish out comments that make mine seem like the most flattering of praise.

And at least Catty Scott has an air of originality about it. It's quite a clever nickname when you think about it, and actually has a nice ring to it. It's not making me Cowell's millions yet - but you never know, someday soon it could.